Aether Sickness
by Borlaaq
Summary: Papalymo survived, Lyse says, chest puffed out and smile so bright her face may crack. Y'shtola can't meet her eyes, can't tell her that Papalymo's Aether shines all wrong. Y'shtola/Lyse, Lyse/Papalymo, Implied previous Yda/Papalymo STORMBLOOD SPOILERS
1. Chapter 1

Lyse had never been good with Aether. She could barely even sense it when she was younger. Yda had enough control to get them both by — a few healing spells here and she learned more as she went to school in Sharlayan. Yda tried to get Lyse interested in the study but the goggles Yda showed her gave Lyse a headache. Lyse learned to rely on her fists even more so than Yda and that was one of their differences.

So it is no surprise that when Papalymo, with red, puffy eyes and shaking hands, starts to cast the spell that would bind them — that would make Lyse Yda — she gets sick. The sensation is overwhelming, the feeling of Aether so powerful like she has never felt before. It's foreign and invasive. It's not hers. Her body starts to reject Papalymo's Aether and she digs her nails into his shoulders with a hiss.

Papalymo tightens his grip on her arm and through clenched teeth, he growls, "Hold...hold still, woman."

Her knees shake despite her kneeling position and her vision blurs. She feels her stomach lurch. She tires to ask how much longer before the spell is done but her the only sound that comes from her throat is a sharp groan. Papalymo curses. Lyse has never felt Aether sickness before but Papalymo is keenly aware of what it looks like. All of his attention is on the spell he is casting that he can't help her so instead he concentrates on trying to speed up his casting. This has exactly the opposite effect.

Lyse jerks, biting her lip and whining. He tries to hold her up but she's much too heavy and when she falls forward, she takes him with her. Papalymo lets out a string of curses as she faints but when he pulls himself out from under her, he's able to make sure the spell is finished without her erratic movement. Yet, looking at the Sage Mark, red and pulsing with his own Aether, he's unsure of his actions.

Could he really just replace Yda? He swallows, mouth dry and feels the string of tears again. Lyse stirs almost as fast as she lost consciousness. He would have been impressed if he could tear his thoughts away from Yda.

"Is it done?" Lyse's voice is hoarse.

Papalymo shakes his head to clear his mind as Lyse slowly sits up and leans to the side to dry heave. He can't take his eyes off the mark as it slowly bleeds from angry red to the bruised purple he is so used to. He is very tired from the spell and the whole situation. He rubs his temples. Papalymo sits down heavily, bones popping.

"It is done," he says finally when she looks over at him. The color still hasn't returned to her face and her eyes bluer, vivid and shining with pure Aether. He's glad for the mask because he doubts that will fade with time so long as she keeps the mark.

After that, there is weight settled around Lyse's neck. It's heavy like a noose, reminding her of her lie and her duty. She made this decision though and she never once regrets it. But neither Papalymo or Lyse have any idea the extent that the spell may effect her. For weeks she struggles with the Aether sickness and the harsh pull towards Papalymo. She is hyper-sensitive to his mana and the Aether around them. It irritates Papalymo because he can feel it too; her mana building up inside of her with no release.

The freedom for both of them comes when, after days of snapping and yelling, Papalymo finally succeeds in teaching her to weave Aether into her fighting style. The transition is slow and a few of the other members point out an improvement in Papalymo's personality and in Lyse's strength. It isn't until Y'shtola is retrieved from the Aether that she notices that it's not even Lyse's Aether that she uses. The color is wrong. Y'shtola had long since suspected Yda dead and Lyse a replacement but when she sees the blue Aether cocoon in the sky the same shade as the punches Lyse throws, Y'shtola knows.

When Lyse returns without her Sage Mark and the noose around her neck gone, the color of her fists is red, not blue. Y'shtola thinks the color is better on her.


	2. Chapter 2

Y'shtola wants to reassure Lyse that it's okay. It's the words that won't come except for a sassy remark. She balls her fists. Emotions have never been her strong suit; she had learned early on to lock them away. To hide them. But now she wants nothing more than to brush Lyse's hair from her face and look into her eyes to let her know she's not alone. Y'shtola has always been there for Lyse but she isn't sure Lyse realizes that. Maybe that's Y'shtola's fault.

She regrets not trying harder. Especially when Lyse disappears just before they are to set out. Y'shtola knew she should have went with her, shouldn't have left Lyse alone after everything that happened but everyone was content on just letting her have space. 'Let her breathe,' Krile had said.

They had just gotten word that the Alliance had secured the breach when Lyse excused herself. She had been quiet and all her words forced but that was to be expected. So they gave her space and they gave her air. Tataru had given her a new outfit and it fit her well. Y'shtola couldn't help but smile. It was so...Lyse. Not Yda. Y'shtola remembered Yda had always had more of a taste for the extravagant. She remembered the flashy dresses that Yda always wore. A Fist of Rhalgr through and through. Lyse, though, even when she was young, was more practical. But always with the color red.

Red like her Aether, Y'shtola thought. It had been dimmer since Papalymo's death but, slowly, with each day, it started to burn brighter.

But then Lyse returned. She was set on starting introductions with one of the more prominent factions of the Resistance. Y'shtola didn't say anything but around Lyse's neck, nestled between her breasts was the glow of pure blue Aether. It was nearly overpowered by her own red aura but Y'shtola did manage to ask Krile what was around Lyse's neck. Without her eyesight and just Aether-sense, Y'shtola could only make out vague shapes.

"It's a necklace. A pretty little thing! I believe it's a vial of Aether. Or perhaps a crystal. I haven't gotten a close look it at."

"It was not part of the outfit Tataru made," Y'shtola mused, crossing her arms and tapping her cheek.

Krile furrowed her brows, "No, I suppose not." Krile didn't know, but Y'shtola did. Lyse was not one for flashy jewelry or dangling parts that could get in the way of her fighting. Yet it was there, hanging around her neck like a noose. Y'shtola dropped the subject and went back to taking inventory of their supplies.

And Lyse had just meant to catch her breath but her walk took her farther from the Rising Stones than she had anticipated. Her legs move on their own and she finds herself looking over the Mark of the Scholar. Her throat tightens. She hates scholars. Always putting books and knowledge before her. Always had to be the hero. Yda, Louisoix and Moenbryda.

Papalymo.

The sky is darker without the cocoon of light overpowering the stars and the moon is new but it is far from dark with the glowing crystals jutting out of the ground like angry daggers. She takes a step closer to the Mark. She feels so alone and the air in the Rathefrost is cold. A shiver wracks her body. They all left her and they will all continue to leave her. She is not a scholar but the Scions, the Archons — that's all they were. Scholars in pursuit of knowledge. They played with power they so desperately wanted to understand. But that was always their destruction.

Lyse's hand shakes as she touched the crystal, so pure and blue — like the light in the sky. She's angry, then, and her hand balls into a fist.

"Why would you leave me alone?!" she yells and it echoes around her. She pulls her fist back, letting her fist hit the crystallized Aether with all her strength. There's a sound akin to breaking glass and Lyse is barely away of the way her knuckles crumple beneath the force. Then there's light, blinding and blue and the world shakes. She barely stumbles back as the crystals shatter around her in a chorus of breaking glass.

She is panting, fist bleeding, and when she finally catches her breath, she sees a large crystal shard embedded in her knuckles. She winces, pulling it out with a hiss. Then pulls herself up and she hears movement. Oh, she would be in so much trouble if anyone found out she literally shattered the Mark of the Scholar.

"Lyse! What have you done now?!" A voice, a call, and she spins.

Papalymo's eyes are wide but his hands are on his hips and lips pulled into a tight frown.

"Papalymo?" She jumps up, pain suddenly forgotten and runs up to him. She falls to her knees in front of him, grabbing his hands, "H-how?! You...I saw you..."

Papalymo tuts like he does when he's scolding her, "I seemed to have... miscalculated," his voice is a bit sheepish as he admits to being wrong. And that's the answer she accepts even though the crystal in my palm burns.

Lyse wants to laugh, cry, yell but all the comes out is a cocky, "And I thought you were the Finest Pupil?"

Papalymo shakes his head and are his eyes more blue than she remembers? "That does not excuse what you did to the Mark of the Scholar!"

Lyse brushes herself off and goes to examine the rubble. The Mark it's self is still intact for the most part and she dusts it off and props it up against some of the other broken crystal. "Good as new!" She flashes him a crocked smirk.

Papalymo sighs, rubbing his temples, "You really are helpless without me."

The two set off back towards the Rising Stones but Papalymo insists they keep his survival quiet. Lyse agrees but she isn't sure why. The shard that she pulled out of her knuckle finds its way in a vial around her neck. The weight is familiar.

It isn't until late one night after they first arrived in Rhalgr's Reach that Y'shtola hears Lyse talking to someone in her tent. Y'shtola hadn't been able to sleep and thought some fresh air would help her clear her mind that raced with battle plans and plots to defeat the Empire. Lyse had been taking to her role with trying to unite the Ala Mhigans well and that at least was some comfort to Y'shtola.

"We're gonna go to my home tomorrow," Y'shtola hears Lyse say. A lamp flickers inside her tent and she can see Lyse's red aura within. At first Y'shtola almost thinks she's talking to her.

A softer voice replies, male, and her ears twitch, "Don't get your hopes up, Lyse. You haven't been home in a long time."

The voice. Y'shtola's body tenses. She hadn't realized she had neared the tent but then she lift the flap slowly.

"Lyse..." she says slowly, eyes sweeping the tent and the blue glow at Lyse's chest match the shape of a small figure standing across from her.

"Oh! Y'shtola! I'm sorry, were we too loud?" Lyse smiles, leaning forward on her cot. Papalymo watches Y'shtola closely but his face is unreadable.

"Papalymo..." she has to clear her dry throat, "It is good to see you are...well."

"As you, Y'shtola," Papalymo's voice is the same as always. Intelligent and arrogant. Y'shtola nearly finds comfort in it, nearly accepts it. She realizes that she hasn't allowed herself time to mourn.

"Lyse, may I speak with you? Privately?"

She looks over at Papalymo, who nods with a soft smile. Lyse hops up and follows Y'shtola out of the tent. She lets the flap fall but doesn't bother leading them too far away. Y'shtola doesn't even have time to ask before Lyse is talking a mile an hour.

"He survived, 'Shtola!" Lyse claps her hands together, rocking on her heels. Y'shtola's heart flutters. She hasn't seen Lyse this happy in a long time.

"He was able to alter the spell then?" Y'shtola asks, leaning forward to brush a strand of hair from Lyse's eyes. They don't shine like they used to, the blue is natural and real. It comforts Y'shtola.

"Yes! Papalymo has always been good at that. I was such a fool for doubting him!" She smiles so wide her face may crack.

Y'shtola doesn't have the heart to tell her that Papalymo's Aether shines all wrong because she knows that even Papalymo knows that Lyse will have to let him go sooner rather than later. Y'shtola just wishes Lyse had come to her for help instead of...this.


End file.
